


lock up all your memories

by crashing_meteors



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29122791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crashing_meteors/pseuds/crashing_meteors
Summary: today can last another million years, today could be the end of me, it's 11:59 and i want to stay alive-Song meets three strange teenagers with lives far different from her own. Their transient presence begins to feel more and more permanent, and she finds she can't help but be happier for it.
Relationships: Jet/Song (Avatar)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7
Collections: Avatar Rarepair Exchange 2021





	lock up all your memories

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LJF](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LJF/gifts).



Longshot and Smellerbee don't leave Jet's side the entire time he's unconscious - they guard him in shifts, but mostly sit together in stony, anxious silence as they watch their leader writhe and moan.

It would be admirable, really, if it weren't getting in the way of Song's work.

"You can stay here, but I need to get to his bandages," Song explains for what feels like the fortieth time. She reaches over the watchdogs and accidentally bumps her patient's arm in the process. One of his companions lets out an audible growl.

"Please," Song says sternly, trying her best to remain patient as she looks between them. "I know you care for him. So let me do my work."

They retreat, but she can feel their watchful eyes on her back the entire time she cleans the wounded boy. Honestly, why bring him to a healer if you're not going to let him be healed? She inhales a deep breath and then lets it out slowly. Ever since they moved closer to Ba Sing Se, she and her mother have been dealing with an influx of extremely desperate and traumatized patients. These people are no different.

Granted, they're basically feral children if the way they eat porridge is anything to go by. The boy lets out a low groan, twisting his body at an odd angle and completely ripping apart her newly-laid bandages. His companions both start, jumping up to check on their injured friend, and crowding Song's workspace all over again.

It's going to be a very long process, least of all because of the boys' injuries. Yet again, Song finds herself longing for her mother's presence, but the strangers had been even warier of her than they were of Song. Her mother had had a short conversation with the girl, and then told Song that it would be her responsibility to nurse their newest patient back to health, as her mother's services weren't wanted.

"Why?" Song had asked indignantly. Few things get Song riled up the way disrespecting her parents do.

"They don't trust adults," her mother had said simply, and when Song opened her mouth to argue the experienced healer had added, "and I'm certain they have a good reason. We don't turn away anyone, my love. Show them where to put him."

So it's just been Song and the angry teenagers for the past week, exchanging very few words and sharing meals in near-silence. The girl, who she discovers is called Smellerbee, speaks only when necessary - the boy, Longshot, does not speak at all.

And the one they call Jet is perhaps the most injured person she's ever worked on, remarkably so, considering his friends had dragged him out of Ba Sing Se to the small town just north of the city. Song does her best to stay defiantly optimistic, as she always has. He's too young to die here, in a stranger's home.

"How much longer is he gonna be out?" Smellerbee asks one evening after they'd managed to feed Jet the tiniest bit of soup. He's growing skinnier by the day, and she must be beginning to understand what Song and her mother have worried about - if Jet doesn't wake up, he won't be able to eat or drink what his body needs to stay alive.

"We have no way of knowing," Song tells the girl gently. "He reacted badly to the smelling salts last time, but if he doesn't wake tomorrow we'll have to try them again."

Badly is a gross understatement - Jet had sat up and immediately emptied the contents of his stomach all over the floor, before passing out again, this time considerably paler. But it's not like they have much of a choice at the moment.

"He's gonna be okay though, right?" Smellerbee insists, and suddenly Song isn't sure if the girl is her age or significantly younger - between the round eyes and the dried tears and the chapped lips, it's hard to distinguish her from a young child. Hesitantly, Song reaches out to grasp Smellerbee's forearm.

"I will do everything I can," Song tells her. "But he's very strong to have made it this far, and he has you to rely on."

Smellerbee nods, chewing at her lip again, and then rejoins Longshot in his dependable silence. She did not, however, flinch at Song's touch. Song takes the absence of aggression as a small victory.

-

-

-

He wakes up at last, in the middle of the night. Smellerbee and Longshot are fast asleep, apparently just starting to feel safe in the small house. They wake up to shouts and the clanging of metal, of course, an indicator of lives harder than Song cares to imagine. But the low groaning, the shuffling of a sick person trying to get their bearings? That's Song's wake-up call. She's tending to him before her bleary eyes have fully opened.

"Slowly," Song mumbles, gripping the boy's shoulder and pressing back slightly as Jet tries to sit. "You're very badly hurt. Lean against the wall - there - and drink some water."

Jet obliges immediately, taking the cup from Song's hand and swallowing it in one long gulp, gasping for air once he's downed the liquid. Song dutifully refills the cup but holds it at arm's length when he reaches for it.

"Slowly," Song repeats. The boy gives her an impressive eye-roll considering his condition, but sips at the drink instead of inhaling it. Suddenly he stops, looking around the dark room wildly.

"Where are-"

"Your friends are sleeping, over there," Song says to him, pointing to the lumps on the floor that are Smellerbee and Longshot. "They've barely gotten any sleep the way they've been looking after you - let's not wake them."

"What about Aang?" Jet says with wide, frightened eyes. "And Katara and the others?" He tries to get off the table, but Song presses gently on his shoulder again, pushing him back.

"I don't know about them," Song says quietly, using her other hand to guide the water back to Jet's mouth. "We can find out in the morning when your friends are awake.

Jet locks eyes with her, and the only rational thought she can put together is that he really needs to brush his hair. Still holding the hand with the water cup, Song gently raises it even further to Jet's lips, where he finally accepts the drink.

"Thank you," Jet mumbles, leaning back down on his makeshift bed with one arm. Song smiles at him, resists the urge to fuss with the rat's nest on his head. He lies down fully, eyes drooping closed, and Song takes her spot beside him on the floor. Morning will bring a hailstorm of activity, no doubt, between Jet's friends' joy and his obvious desire to get up and out of bed. For now, Song allows herself a breath of relief - he's alive. 

-

-

-

Jet's awakening heralds terrible news, like the world needed to offer a gift in exchange for the cruel curse that would follow.

"There are rumors Ba Sing Se has fallen to the Fire Nation," Song's mother tells her gravely while they make breakfast. Song nearly drops the dishes she's holding, but her mother is able to steady her with only a glance. "We need to prepare for the eventuality that we may need to move further north. There are refuges, up there, so I hear."

Song had very nearly convinced her mother that passage to Ba Sing Se was the safest way to go. The Impenetrable City seemed too large and imposing to fall to the Fire Nation. Her mother had pointed out that people once said the same of Omashu, and look at that now? No, the country was better - the better to hide in, the better to run. Her mother cups Song's face in her hands, pulling her in close for a kiss to the forehead, and leaving Song feeling like little girl again.

"Now is not the time to discuss this," her mother says by way of apology. "Let us go celebrate your victory with the others."

It’s easy to ignore the foreboding feeling in Song's chest, though, when the laughter of three ridiculously joyful teenagers echoes throughout her home. Smellerbee and Longshot had gaped in disbelief when they awoke to Jet telling them they’d slept long enough, casting a playfully judgmental look at them from where he slouched on his cot. They ran at him so fast Song nearly shrieked for fear of disrupting all her hard work, but they merely reached tenderly for their friend, clasping shoulders and hands, touching foreheads. It almost seemed like they couldn’t believe he was real.

Now, they regale him with their daring adventure out of the city.

“You wouldn’t believe it, Jet!” Smellerbee says enthusiastically, waving her arms around. “We had to sneak past at least half a dozen guards. I mean, that’s nothing, but carrying you-“

“Hey,” Jet says indignantly, “I’m not that heavy.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a toothpick,” Smellerbee agrees, waving him off. Jet just quirks a playful brow, allowing the younger girl to continue. “The point is, we had to smuggle you past this crazy zoo - tell him about the elephant mandrill, Longshot.”

In response, Longshot measures out a large space from the wall to himself, and then holds a hand far above his own head.

“That big, huh?” Jet asks. “Impressive. Nothing compared to the pack of hog monkeys Sneers and I took on, but still impressive.”

“That was nothing!” Smellerbee cries, but even in her insult, she’s smiling broadly. She playfully punches her friend’s shoulder, then his other shoulder, then his torso, just above his wound. Song prepares herself to be the wet blanket when her mother makes her entrance, and the room quiets.

“I’m glad to see you’re feeling so well, young man,” she says to Jet, smiling warmly at him. Jet stiffens, but returns the grin easily.

“Thanks to you and your daughter, ma’am,” Jet says, saluting her. “It was very kind of you to help us.”

“We help any who cross our path,” Song’s mother says, and there’s just a hint of mischief that only Song catches. “Of course, having my daughter tend to you has slowed us down some. We’re behind on many of our chores.”

Unfortunately, she’s right. Song hated leaving her mother to tend to their livestock - their new home, her grandfather's farm just south of the sacred mountains, requires a great deal of upkeep, and with Song watching Jet like a hawk, she’s been unable to lend a hand.

“Please, allow me to repay you,” Jet offers almost immediately, and though Song makes a mental note of appreciation, she reaches a hand out instinctively to keep the boy from hopping off the table.

“You’re still very weak,” Song’s mother says seriously. “However, if your friends would be willing to assist me while Song aids in your recovery...”

“Of course,” Smellerbee says as she and Longshot stand before Song’s mother, apparently far more trusting now that Jet can laugh and tease with them. “Whatever we can do.”

As it turns out, they can do a lot. Longshot is a hard and diligent worker, and what Smellerbee lacks in skill she makes up for in determination. Song's mother keeps the girl at her side constantly, teaching her how to sew, how to do repairs around the house, bringing her to market to help her haggle. Longshot tends to the pair of ostrich horses and large array of chickens on their property, bringing eggs inside in the morning and helping to prepare breakfast. Jet watches on in envy.

"I can do _that_ ," Jet tells Song as she practically drags him across the room. After getting her mother's approval, they've decided to try walking. Jet had been so relieved to move he slid right off his bed, and into a puddle on the floor. Song adamantly did not laugh at him.

("Your muscles are weak," she had told him gently, pulling him to his feet with strong, practiced arms. "You'll need to go a bit slower than that."

"Yeah, okay," was all he had said, the tips of his ears turning a soft pink. They start by walking across the room together, Jet's arm around her shoulder, hers around his middle. Song definitely does not dwell on the feel of his waist under her hand.)

"Do what?" Song asks him.

"That," he says, gesturing with his free hand over to where Longshot is preparing breakfast. Longshot glances back at Jet, eyes him up and down, and makes a quiet tut before returning to his task. Jet makes an insulted noise that Song has very quickly learned will devolve into a rant, so she cuts him off.

"If you'd like to help with meals, you can chop onions," she tells him. Jet considers the vegetables awaiting him on the table.

"Like you said," he deflects easily. "Gotta get my strength back first."

In the daytime, while Smellerbee and Song's mother are off in town and Longshot sweats out in their field, Song and Jet have very little to do except talk to one another. The stronger he gets, the better he looks. Song is very glad some of her first impressions of this boy were undignified groaning and a bad case of nausea, or she might have ended up acting more flustered than she'd usually like.

"Nice place," Jet says, sitting by the window and watching Longshot interact with their ostrich horses. "Quiet, though."

"There's nothing wrong with quiet," Song says only a little defensively, placing a cup of tea in front of him. Jet nods to her in thanks.

"Guess I'm just used to noise."

"You grew up in Ba Sing Se?" Song asks, and Jet's lip curls in disgust.

"No," he says venomously, and Song must look taken aback, because he softens a little. "We were just - passing through, I guess. Before that, we lived out in the wild, with other kids like us. We were free."

"And loud?" she guesses. Jet grins.

"Very."

Song can't quite imagine living with other children that way - it's been her and her mother for so long now that the thought of not having an adult to look after her feels almost paralyzing. Then again, when she looks at Jet and his friends, she can understand the appeal. Song would've thought she'd be annoyed by their presence, but really, she's grateful for the company.

"You ever been in the city?" Jet asks her suddenly. Song shakes her head no.

"Good," he says seriously. "That's good."

-

-

-

The days wear on into a week, and then two, and Jet's strength returns little-by-little. They continue to make their daily trek across the house together, and then they walk about the farm, and then Jet doesn't really need her at all, her mother having gifted him with a small cane she and Smellerbee found at the market. Song tries not to mourn the loss of their time together; after all, his health is a blessing. But she can't help but feel a warm glow spread across her cheeks when he begins his walk around the property and looks back incredulously at her.

"You just gonna sit there and look pretty while I learn how to walk again?" Jet demands, and Song laughs.

"I think you just need someone to pay attention to you," she teases, rising to join him all the same. Jet shrugs, not exactly denying the accusation. They make it all the way around the property without even a stumble, and Song is about to suggest that maybe he try walking without her as a safety net, when Jet's knees give out at the threshold to their home, and he practically tips over before Song can reach around his middle and haul him back upright.

Jet stares at her in confusion, cane lying forgotten on the ground, and Song wonders why in the world he has to be so tall.

"Thanks," he says, allowing Song to manhandle him into a somewhat stable position while she retrieves his cane. "Good instincts." Song fights the urge to roll her eyes - of course she's got good instincts, she's been caring for people her whole life. Instead, she deposits him unceremoniously at the kitchen table, pats his shoulder awkwardly.

"It's nothing," she says, turning away to begin lunch preparation, firmly ignoring the way Jet's eyes follow her around the room curiously. It's not like she did anything terribly strenuous or impressive - she just did her job. Still, Jet is quiet over lunch, even as Smellerbee bemoans the latest merchant who attempted to cheat them out of good feed for the chickens.

-

-

-

Jet and Song are outside with Longshot as the quiet boy explains his latest project - naming each of the chickens.

"That means Worm - that does mean Worm, right?" Jet says to Longshot, and Longshot nods, smiling. The two boys have been teaching Song how to sign, specifically Longshot's dialect. "Guess because she always flops in the mud during rainstorms - weird bird..."

"What are you calling him?" Song asks, pointing to their rather proud rooster, who is eyeing them warily from atop his coop. Longshot rolls his eyes before signing in answer. Jet smirks.

"Apparently, that's the Earth King," he translates, and it takes Song by such surprise her laugh comes out as a snort. Jet raises his already expressive eyebrows, elbowing her with his free arm.

"What was that?" he asks, poking at her sides in an effort to make her laugh again and produce the same sound. Song covers her mouth with both hands, attempting to stifle the giggle that threatens to betray her. "Didn't know we had a wooly pig on the farm - no, you're right Longshot, more like a pigster." Song can't help it, she snorts again, and Jet and Longshot cackle so loud they don't even hear Smellerbee and Song's mother trudging down the road.

"Smells, you gotta listen to this -" Jet says giddily, but he stops short when he notices that the girl has been crying. Song rushes over to her mother, whose face is wet with tears as well.

"Mother, what's happened?" Song says gently, taking her mother's hands in her own. Her mother takes a deep breath, squeezing Song's shaking fingers, and then looks out over the four children.

"Ba Sing Se has fallen to the Fire Nation, and," she shudders a little. "The avatar has fallen as well."

-

-

-

Jet no longer walks around the home, choosing to limp as quickly as he can in something resembling a run each morning before even the sun has risen. For some reason, the strength on his left side won't return the way it has on his right. His slow recovery frustrates him to no end, and his chosen method of healing makes Song want to rip her hair out.

She stands outside, waiting for him to complete his first lap in the dusky light of just before dawn. He spots her at the front door to the house and doesn't even slow down, dragging his bad leg along as if in spite of her presence.

"How many times do I have to tell you," Song calls irritably once he's in earshot, "this is only going to make things worse."

"It's been a month," he grits out. "I can't wait any longer."

"For what?" Song demands, matching his pace with ease as he passes her, not even bothering to look her in the face. "What do you think you're going to do? March into the Fire Nation?"

"If I have to," Jet says furiously, and Song won't hear anymore. She steps in front of his path, reaching out to grab his shoulders and pull him to a stop. Jet narrows his eyes at her, trying to shake her off, but Song has handled stronger patients than him.

"Get off of me," he seethes, writhing in her grip.

"No!" she yells, forcing him to stand still. "I'm your healer - stop that! - that means it's my duty to look after you - enough! - and I won't let you break yourself for some stupid dream of glory!"

"Glory?" he asks her, laughing harshly. "They killed my parents, Song! They'll kill all of us if we don't go after them -"

"Jet, you're just one man, and your leg is still weak -"

"Stop saying that!" Jet roars. "Stop it! What do you even know about my leg?"

Oh, Song wants to let him fall right then and there. She takes a deep, soothing breath, that does absolutely nothing to help her collect her thoughts, and uses one hand to pull up on the skirts of her dress, revealing the mark the Fire Nation had left on her all those years ago. Jet just stares, open-mouthed at the scar.

"I know it feels like it's weighing you down," Song says quietly. "I know it feels like you're not a person anymore - you're just a useless limb and the body that's attached. I know it feels like you want to run at the person who did this with the sharp end of a knife, and that if you ever actually saw that person, you'd be paralyzed."

"I didn't know," is all Jet can say, and Song can't really blame him. She should've told him. But war changes you - she's not quite as open as she once was.

"How could you have?" Song says gently, letting the skirt drop and reaching for his shoulders again, squeezing them soothingly. "I suppose even now it makes me feel weak. But take it from someone who knows - what you're doing now will only hurt you in the end. If not for yourself, for your friends - slow down, Jet, please."

Head hanging, Jet nods in agreement. Jet allows Song to reach around his middle and escort him back inside, slinging an arm around her shoulders. She maneuvers him into a chair, just as she always does, and as she turns away he snatches her hand, pressing the barest of kisses to the back of it. He does not look at her when he releases her, staring out the window, as though he is afraid of how she might react. Song flexes her hand a little, trying to remind her fingers how to work. That night, she sleeps with that same hand over her heart.

-

-

-

"We knew him," Jet tells her at last on a hot summer day. He's finally well enough to help with chores, though he still limps severely. Longshot has his own way with the farm, of course, and Jet's not particularly interested in the work Smellerbee does, so he helps Song in the garden, picking herbs that they use in their salves and medicines. Jet's spent so much time in the house with Song, watching her heal patients again and again, that he's gained some knowledge of the art. Though the war rages to the south, there's so far been no trouble in the sleepy little town Song is beginning to call home. She and Jet sit together among the flowers, working lazily in the heat.

"Knew who?" Song asks distantly, only half paying attention as she attempts to detangle her long braid from a pricker bush. Jet reaches over, unplaiting the braid with practiced ease.

"The avatar," Jet says simply, and Song feels her mind skid to a halt. "He was...he was our friend. His name was Aang."

Of course - that day, when Jet first awoke, he had asked about an Aang, and someone else. Song doesn't really know how to respond to this confession, and so she doesn't - she knows Jet well enough by now to realize that if he's bringing the topic up, he wants to tell her about it, not be lectured or interrogated.

"I did a lot of things I'm not proud of, not long ago. I don't regret it, I just," Jet sighs in frustration, searching for the right way to phrase what he wants to say. "I don't wanna be that person anymore. I went to Ba Sing Se because I thought it would be good for me, for us, you know?"

Song nods along, trusting Jet not to pull at her hair as he picks through the stickers stuck in it.

"Aang was such a good kid," Jet says fondly, lost to another time. "He had the biggest heart and this goofy sense of humor. And he was just a kid. He was 12 years old, did you know that? The fate of the whole world resting on the bony shoulders of a 12-year-old kid."

Song had heard rumors, of course, that the avatar was only a boy. But even in these rumors, he was described as all-powerful, as wise beyond his years, as some otherworldly entity. Jet made him out to sound so...small.

"It wasn't fair," Song says quietly, reaching behind her to where Jet's hand rests on her shoulder, covering his with her own. "To any of you. You know that, don't you? It wasn't fair."

"No," he agrees softly. "It wasn't."

They sit in a not-quite-strained silence, both of them lost in thought. Jet manages to pick apart the last of the stickers and then begins to absently smooth Song's long, silky hair, gently detangling knots with careful fingers.

"I don't want to be that person anymore," he says again at last. "But I feel like I'm not good for anything else."

"Strange," Song says as seriously as she can, "I was just thinking you make a lovely hairbrush."

Jet lets out a laugh, dropping Song's long locks and allowing her to redo her braid. 

"You know what amazes me about you, Song?" Jet says, and he almost sounds reverential. "You never let me fall."

He stretches a little, rising all on his own, and even offering a hand down to Song once she's finished with her hair. She takes the offer, allowing him to pull her up. She rights herself and moves to leave his grasp, but Jet does not release her hands.

"I'm not a farmer," he tells Song, face very close to her own.

"No," Song agrees, refusing to break eye contact "the chickens don't like you. Good thing we have Longshot."

"I mean," Jet says, hesitating as he tries yet again to explain himself, "I don't understand this life. But I'm trying to."

"I know," Song says quietly, darting her tongue out to lick her suddenly dry lips. Jet watches the action before returning his eyes to her own. "I know."

"I don't know if I can make you happy, either," Jet murmurs, releasing one of her hands so that he can stroke her cheek with his thumb. "Will you let me try?"

"I'm already happy," Song replies, standing on her tiptoes so that she can kiss him in earnest. Jet makes a noise that sounds suspiciously similar to a squeak as she does so, but after a moment he remembers to return the kiss, hand around her waist, fingers in her hair.

"You're ruining my braid," Song whispers, placing soft, sweet kisses along his throat, over the line of his jaw. Jet hums happily.

"Don't worry," he murmurs, "I happen to know an excellent hairbrush."

-

-

-

The war ends, and the unspoken agreement Song and her mother had had with the small group of Freedom Fighters seems to be coming to a close as well. Smellerbee has stopped climbing everything in sight, and Longshot naps without looking over his shoulder every half hour, but they all feel a sense of impending farewell. Song knows she should probably discuss what this might mean with Jet, but they've had more than enough returning soldiers to deal with, so they simply avoid the subject.

"Pass the burn salve," Jet calls over the din of injured men fighting to be seen. Song effortlessly tosses the glass jar over to Jet.

"Careful with that!" her mother hisses, popping someone's shoulder back into place. Smellerbee and Longshot dutifully wait outside - neither of them particularly interested in healing. When the crowd dissipates, evening falling quietly over the small farm, all five of them sit at the dinner table, the four teenagers buzzing with nervous energy. Jet is the first to speak up.

"Mom - ah, Ma'am," Jet corrects himself, already off to a great start. Song's mother merely smiles indulgently at him as she serves them roast duck. "You've been incredibly generous to us, but we've overstayed our welcome. If you could be so kind as to allow us to stay a little longer, we'll find jobs in town, and be out of your hair."

Song offers him a tiny, nervous smile. Jet smiles back. So he doesn't plan on going too far. That's good - that's wonderful, actually.

"Jobs in town?" Song's mother asks in surprise as Longshot helps her serve. "Is the payment you receive here not adequate? It's your choice, of course, although I must admit I've come to rely on the extra help-"

"That's just it," Smellerbee interrupts, "you saved Jet's life for free, you let us stay here for free, and you pay us on top of that. It's not right, we all agree we're taking advantage-"

"Taking advantage?" Song's mother repeats incredulously, looking between the three teenagers and then at Song, as though she might have an answer to all of this. "How could you be taking advantage of me? You're children."

"All due respect, ma'am," Jet says just a little smugly, "but I believe we're perfectly capable of that." Song jabs him with her elbow.

"I'm sure," Song's mother agrees laughing, "but what I mean is - you're not taking advantage of me, because I chose to take you in. This place, our home, it's yours as well, if you'd like it to be."

"This war has taken too much from us," she says to them, placing a hand each on Song's and Smellerbee's shoulders. "You three have brought joy back into our lives. You may leave if you wish, but this is your home now, too."

The Freedom Fighters stare dumbly at Song's mother, before exchanging looks with one another. There's a long, silent conversation, no signing involved, and then they all seem to sigh in relief. Longshot begins signing rapidly, and Song only catches every other word.

"He says we need to invest in more livestock," Smellerbee tells them, "and I agree. Also, in a better barn. I've fallen through that roof more times than I can count."

"You shouldn't be on the roof!" Song's mother protests. Beside her, Jet reaches for Song's hand and pulls it to his lips, kissing the tips of each of her fingers. He smiles at her, a big, dopey thing, and for the first time since Song can remember, Jet looks content.

"Are you happy here?" she whispers to him, leaning in close so he can hear her over the argument happening in front of them.

"Yes," he whispers back, closing the distance between them with a light kiss to her forehead, and Song feels in her bones that he means it.

**Author's Note:**

> I always love writing about Jet and Song, but more than anything I love allowing children to be children. The Freedom Fighters are just teenagers, after all, and I really enjoyed allowing them to act like teenagers, just for a little while. At least they've got Song's mother looking out for them now. I hope you enjoyed.
> 
> Title from Blondie's "11:59".


End file.
